


I Want You to Get Better

by stuckoncloud9



Series: A Child Weaned on Poison [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Child Abuse, F/F, First Meetings, Harley gives it her best shot anyway, Poison Ivy really would benefit from some quality therapy, Too bad her favorite psychiatrist becomes a supervillain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel is new at Arkham Asylum, but she's sure that with a little courtesy, she can convince Arkham's most dangerous inmate to open up.
Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Series: A Child Weaned on Poison [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914298
Comments: 52
Kudos: 159





	1. Mortal Fear

There was a knocking at the door.

“You know you’re the one with the key, right?” Ivy said. “I can’t exactly let you in.”

The thick metal door enclosing the cell opened, and a blonde bespeckled doctor stepped through. She looked around at the grim surroundings with distaste. 

“Do they _ever_ dust in here?” she asked, running a finger along the chain holding up the bench on the north wall. 

“Oh, they never clean anything in solitary,” Ivy said. “There’s still straw everywhere from the last time Crane was in here.”

To her credit, the doctor didn’t shriek or stumble backwards. The only indication of fear was a slight widening of her eyes. “Is that so?”

“No, that was a little joke,” Ivy said, stretching. “I heard you like those. There’s no plant matter in this cell, dear, don’t worry your pretty head about it.” 

The doctor cocked her head. “Hmm. I think it would be funnier if it wasn't completely believable that Crane would shed straw everywhere, left unattended.”

“Oh, he does,” Ivy said, her mouth quirking up with the ghost of a grin. “Just not in Arkham. They hose you down pretty good when you check in.”

“That’s... reassuring, I suppose,” she said in a tone that suggested she found it more contemptible than anything else. “Maybe we should start again from the top. I’m Doctor Quinzel.” 

Her hand twitched forward in a way that made Ivy think the doctor had almost reached out to shake her hand. What had stopped the motion, Ivy mused. Mortal fear of the poison she was capable of emitting through her skin? Or had the blonde remembered that Ivy was wearing a straitjacket?

“I know who you are, Harleen,” Ivy said. “We’re a pretty tight knit community, we Arkhamites. Word of lovely new psychiatrists travels fast.”

Quinzel gave a short laugh. “Everyone wants a piece of the new girl, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Ivy agreed. “Usually pretty literally, around here.” 

If the doctor noticed that her smile was less an indication of humor and more a display of teeth, she didn’t show it.

“I came here to apologize,” Quinzel said. “For what happened in group therapy this morning.”

Ivy raised an eyebrow. “And why would that be? From what I remember, you weren’t the one assaulting orderlies.” 

“No, that was definitely you,” Quinzel agreed. “But if you wanted to apologize to Mr. Harris or his family—”

“I don’t.”

“Then that’s not what I’m here for,” Quinzel said. “I’m here because I feel the way you were pushed into speaking this morning was unfair and uncalled for.”

“But you weren’t even the therapist running group today,” Ivy pointed out. “If there’s an apology to be made, shouldn’t it be Dr. Anderson down here begging me for forgiveness?”

Quinzel frowned. “Dr. Anderson and I have... different understandings of patient boundaries,” she said carefully. “The insinuations he made about your father this morning were entirely inappropriate for a group setting.” Her gaze softened somewhat. “Especially considering all the other patients in the session were men.”

“ _Please_ ,” Ivy scoffed. “You think I care about what a bunch of men think of me? Those sacks of sinew and meat are welcome to whatever meager thoughts their testosterone-laden brains can muster.”

“I think you do care, actually,” Harleen said. She brushed off a clean spot on the bench and sat down. “I think you are very understandably averse to appearing vulnerable in front of your entirely male peers, all of whom are violent criminals who have repeatedly proven themselves willing to take advantage of the weakness of others.”

“And what, you think I’m not?” Ivy hissed. “Newsflash, sweetheart: I was the most dangerous person in that room. The list of security precautions Arkham has to take for me is ten pages longer than any other inmate’s. They’re just men. Mortal men. I’m a _god_.”

It was a weak claim, made with her arms bound from the floor of her cell. But her visitor neglected to point out the irony.

“I know,” she said. “They know it, too. Because you don’t let them forget it. Any indication otherwise, and you remind them — say, by tripping an orderly so that he makes contact with your uncovered skin. Mr. Harris is recovering, by the way.”

“I’m aware,” Ivy said.

“It looked pretty bad, at first,” Quinzel said, continuing as if Ivy hadn’t spoken. “I mean, you were there. Dr. Anderson fainted straight away. I think they might have pulled you out before you could see, but Nygma and Tetch both vomited when his skin started to... well." She took off her glasses, cleaning them absentmindedly with the fabric of her skirt. "When we got him to the infirmary, however," she said, replacing her spectacles, "medical quickly determined that whatever poison he’d contracted? Had a bark _much_ worse than its bite.”

Ivy turned her head. “Harris isn’t worth the effort of killing. He was just...”

“The only person in reach,” Quinzel finished. “I understand entirely.”

Neither spoke for a moment, just staring at each other in silence. 

“You think you’re very clever, don’t you Harleen?” Ivy asked eventually. “Little wonder how you talked your way into maximum security.” She let her gaze rake the doctor up and down. “Although I’m guessing your pretty face didn’t hurt your chances, either.”

Quinzel stood up, brushing any lingering dust off of her skirt. “That’s the third time you’ve mentioned my appearance in a manner indicating attraction,” she observed. “I hope you’re not under the impression that I find it alarming or off-putting. I’d hate for you to waste your efforts for the wrong reasons.” 

She walked to the entrance of the cell, but glanced back at Ivy before stepping outside it.

“If you ever want to have a real conversation about your father — or about anything else you’d like to talk about — I promise I would make a much better conversation partner than Anderson,” Quinzel offered. “If you ever decide to request a change in doctors... my door is always open.”

Then she was gone, the cell closing behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of inspired by how before Harley came around, Ivy was often depicted as just about the ONLY woman inmate at Arkham Asylum, much less the max security wing (so rude of Selina, either always going to Blackgate or never getting caught in the first place). It's stressful enough to be the only woman in a group at work or school, I can't imagine how paranoia-inducing it would be to be the only woman in a group of crazed supervillains - even if a lot of those supervillains are gimmicky wannabes compared to Ivy's modern status as an overpowered plant god.


	2. Spare the Rod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dr. Anderson and I have... different understandings of patient boundaries,” Quinzel said carefully. “The insinuations he made about your father this morning were entirely inappropriate for a group setting.”

Pamela’s mother was standing by the door. Her fingers danced around the folds of her dress, twitching and fidgeting with untaken action. Pamela stared at her mother’s hands while the doctor took her temperature. 

“You’re quite right, Mr. Isley,” the doctor said, pulling away. “Your daughter’s fever is far too high to go into school today.”

“Poor Pam,” Father said, pressing a hand to her forehead. “So you’ll write a note for us? I doubt the academy will give us our deposit back unless we give them proof that she was too sick to go on the field trip.”

“Of course,” the doctor said with a nod. He started placing his equipment back in the leather bag he’d brought with him. “I’ll write something up as soon as I get back to my office. I can fax it to you and Seattle Prep at the same time if you’d like.”

“That would be great,” Father said warmly. “We really appreciate this, Dr. Harris. I know you keep a pretty busy schedule.”

The doctor chuckled. “Please. Anything for my favorite toxicologist. Now,” he said, turning to Pamela’s mother, “my prescription would be plenty of bedrest and — if possible — some chicken noodle soup. Is that something you could do for your daughter, Ms. Isley?”

A quiet nod, and she disappeared from the doorway. Pamela kept staring at the spot where she’d been.

“Lovely woman,” the doctor said, pulling his bag over his shoulder. “You must be very happy.” 

“We have our moments,” Father said with a wink. He shook the doctor’s hand. “Need me to walk you out, Doc?”

“I remember the way I came in,” the doctor said, walking to the door. “Best wishes, Mr. Isley.”

Father turned to Pamela once his guest had left. 

“Well, Pam,” he said, walking over to the tea set on her dresser. “I hope this puts your protests to rest. I know you were looking forward to going to the State Park today, but you’re just not well enough to be outside like that.”

Pamela didn’t say anything, just watched him as he poured two cups of tea from the silver kettle.

“Maybe your mother and I can take you some other time,” he suggested. He stirred a spoonful of sugar into the fresh cup of tea, then brought it up to his mouth to take a sip. “You know, when you’ve been good. We could even tour the Nature Center. That’s what you were telling your mother about last night, right? The Nature Center?”

He opened the small wooden box that sat next to the tea kettle. Carefully, he measured out some of the powdered herbs inside. When he was satisfied with the amount, he stirred it into the cup that Pamela had drank from earlier that morning. 

“You know I hate to see you sick, right sweetheart?” Father asked, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “It doesn’t give me any pleasure to see you all out of sorts like this. I wish you were out running around with your classmates as much as you do.”

“Liar.”

Her voice was weak and hoarse. Father raised an eyebrow at her. 

“What was that, Pam?” he asked, setting her cup on his lap as he carefully pulled her blanket up and tucked her in. Even with the chill of her fever, the heat was suffocating.

Pamela didn’t say anything, just glared at him.

“See, this is exactly the issue,” he said, picking the cup back up. “Your attitude problem. If you were less of a brat last night, you could be out in the woods right now. Wouldn’t that be better, Pam? Isn’t that what you want?”

He held the tea cup up to Pamela’s lips. Its fragrance was noxious, sickly-sweet, and her eyes squeezed shut reflexively. 

“I want you to get better, Pam,” Father said. “To _be_ better. But before that, I need you to drink this.”

He tilted the cup, the boiling hot liquid meeting Pamela’s lips.

She didn’t want to. But she drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very loosely based off of Poison Ivy's New 52 origin, where she's a sickly child and her father is abusive. I always thought her backstory would stand out more if those two facts were related. A lot of DC villains have "violently abusive dad" as a motivation, and to be honest, I thought "Every time he hit her, Pamela's father bought his wife's forgiveness with flowers, teaching Pamela that flowers could manipulate people" was kind of a weak explanation for Ivy's M.O when I first read it. 
> 
> So that's where this idea for Ivy's childhood came from. Pamela doesn't get her predilection for poison and manipulation anywhere strange, and she's long since learned to hate being vulnerable around men.


	3. Informed Consent

“Patients will be interviewed for — hello, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce Wayne smiled sheepishly at Harleen, pausing in his less than stealthy attempt to squeeze into the back row of the presentation room. 

“Sorry Doctor,” he said, rubbing the back of his head with practiced chagrin. “I got held up in traffic.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Harvey Dent asked from the other side of the room, earning a chorus of chuckles from the gathered Arkham trustees and city officials. Harleen managed not to roll her eyes. Wayne made his way over to the District Attorney, who’d pulled out the chair next to him in invitation. 

“I’m very sorry for the interruption,” Wayne said, sitting down next to Dent. “Please, continue.”

Harleen cleared her throat. “Patients will be interviewed for interest by staff _other_ than their consulting psychiatrist. This interview will also serve as a basis for evaluation of whether the patient is likely to... purposefully provoke other members of the group.”

She watched out of the corner of her eye as Wayne subtly turned to his friend, mouthing something too quiet to hear. Dent leaned backwards to reply without taking his eyes off the presentation.

Harleen sighed. “Page three of the meeting program, Mr. Wayne. ‘Update to Structure of Group Therapy Sessions.’ Presenter and program designer, Harleen Quinzel.”

Dent wordlessly handed Wayne his program over his shoulder. Wayne gave her another sheepish smile as he started palming through the folded booklet.

Idiots. Harleen wasn’t sure why Jeremiah even bothered to organize these monthly meetings. Her time would probably have been better spent sending their secretaries an email. 

“If a patient’s interest is confirmed, their consulting psychiatrist agrees, and the decision is approved by a clinical panel led by Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, a consent form will be provided to the patient,” Harleen continued. “Collaboration between the panel and consulting psychiatrist will determine which groups consenting patients will be placed in.”

She pointed her remote at the projector to switch to the next slide, then paused.

“Group placement will _not,_ as was the previous practice, be based on the perceived ‘prestige’ of the participants,” she added. “This exercise merely fed the criminal delusions of Arkham’s most frequently returning patients in a misguided attempt to mine their rivalries with each other for psychiatric insights. We— Mr. Wayne?”

“Who was organizing these therapy groups before?” Wayne asked, lowering the hand he'd raised over his head. He appeared almost bored, still casually flipping through the program without lingering long enough to read any given page.

“And—” Harleen started, then stopped at a glare from Jeremiah. “Ah. I mean, it was a collaborative effort,” she said lamely. “I’m sure Dr. Arkham could—”

Wayne made a dismissive gesture without looking up. “Never mind. I don’t need Jeremiah to take time out of his day to answer my question.” 

“Right,” Harleen said, glancing between Wayne and the now wary looking Jeremiah. “Well. My new group therapy program has three main phases...”

She didn’t make any more unplanned alterations to her script as she discussed the timeline of the program. She filled in the board on how the program would progress from individual reflection, to rational emotive behavioral therapy, to reality therapy, to solution-focused brief therapy. Wayne looked characteristically distracted throughout, at one point even turning around to fold his program into what Harley suspected was a paper airplane. But to her surprise, he continued asking questions, raising his hand to ask for clarification on almost every stage of her outline. Even Jeremiah and his panel hadn’t expressed this much interest, and they’d been the ones to approve the project.

“The traditional method would be guided psychodrama role play to act out new problem solving techniques,” Harleen said, responding to Wayne’s request for clarification. “But the extent to which individual groups would engage in those activities over merely letting the patients lead discussions with hands-off clinical facilitators will vary.” She pushed up her glasses. “Of course, this part of the program would be five years into the future, at the minimum. The exact details will be modified depending on the success or failure of the previous phases.”

She straightened her shoulders, switching to her next slide. It thanked her audience for listening — which she’d expected to be entirely sarcastic when she’d originally made the presentation — and listed her cited sources. 

“Well, that’s all I have,” Harleen said, crossing her arms behind her back. “Unless there are any more questions?”

Everyone turned to Wayne. He glanced up at the sudden silence, looking confused by the attention. 

“Thank you, Dr. Quinzel,” Jeremiah said as he rose to his feet. He clapped, and a round of polite applause made its way across the room. “Now, our next presentation will be from Dr. Meridian...”

Harleen grabbed her briefcase and made her way out of the room. “You’re on,” she said to the bored looking psychiatrist waiting in the hallway. Dr. Meridian stood up, shuffling around the vaguely bat-shaped Rorschachs she was holding under her arm, and gave Harleen a wink before entering the conference room. 

Dr. Joan Leland was waiting for her when she made it back to her own office. “Isley’s interviewer finished,” Leland told Harleen as she set her equipment down on her desk. “You mentioned that you wanted the transcript from their conversation as quickly as possible?”

“Excellent,” Harleen said, eagerly accepting the print-out offered by her colleague. “Thanks, Joan. I really appreciate it. Hopefully this meeting won’t hold up Jerimiah and his panel all day. I want them examining this as soon as possible.”

“Oh, I doubt that will be necessary,” Leland said, watching with interest as Harleen scanned the first paper.

Harleen glanced up, looking betrayed. “Joan, I would have expected you of all people to—”

“Not what I meant,” Leland said, reaching over to flip the print-out to its last page. “She said _no_ , Harley. She’s not interested.”

“She’s not...” Harleen read the indicated paragraph in disbelief. “But... but she was...”

“Never interested in group therapy in the first place?” Leland prompted, tilting her head with just the slightest hint of judgement. “ _You_ made the process consensual, Harley. Didn’t you expect that some patients would say no if you gave them the option?”

“Of course I did,” Harleen snapped. “I just thought... is she still in the interview room?”

“Well, it takes about _two hours_ for security to move her anywhere,” Leland said, crossing over to the door of Harleen’s office. “So my educated guess would be yes.”

She paused in the doorway. “Do you want my advice, Harley?”

“Always,” Harleen said automatically. _Absolutely not_ , she thought. 

Leland’s eyes warmed with a flash of entirely unwanted sympathy. “I know you... I don’t...” she trailed off, then inhaled and tried again. “It isn’t wise to fixate on specific patients,” she said. “Even here. _Especially_ here.”

“I know,” Harleen said, trying to keep her annoyance from showing in her face.

Leland opened her mouth, possibly to object. But whatever she was going to say, she thought better of it. Instead she nodded, and left.

Harleen followed her into the hallway, stalking off in the opposite direction. She weaved through the small army of security guards examining the corridors for any plant matter that might have been tracked in since the patient in question had been moved that morning. Her ID allowed her access to the patient interview room, where she found a very smug looking Poison Ivy chained judiciously to a chair on the other side of a stainless steel table.

“Dr. Quinzel,” Ivy said, smiling in a way that would doubtlessly have been very charming in a different scenario. “I was wondering if you’d be by.” 

“Did they not explain the program changes?” Harleen said, ignoring the greeting. “It’s not Anderson anymore. It’s _my_ outline. I’m in charge.”

“Are you?” Ivy asked. She glanced over the frustrated psychiatrist, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Actually?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Well, then,” Ivy said casually. Harleen could tell that if the inmate’s hands were free, she’d be taking the opportunity to examine her nails. “I guess I owe you a thank you.”

Harleen frowned. “But you—”

“Those group ‘therapy’ sessions were an insufferable and _entirely_ unwanted connection to humanity,” Ivy said. “The insult of being forced to relate to those worthless sacks of meat was easily the worst part of my imprisonment here. So _thank you_ , Harleen,” she said, leaning forward as much as she was able, “for _finally_ allowing me input on the question of whether or not I would benefit from conversing with my fellow man.” 

She laughed at that, the mirth of the sound almost lost in its resounding bitterness. 

Harleen sighed, her frustration melting away into exhaustion. “Everyone needs people, Pamela.”

“ _I_ don’t,” Ivy said flatly. She didn’t stop speaking as Harleen turned to leave, aiming her retort at the psychiatrist’s retreating back. “And if you were as enlightened as you think you are? You wouldn’t either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harleen's revised program is based on this adorable Prezi I found when searching "Arkham group therapy" on Google (https://prezi.com/p/8rj3cjvrzoa3/group-therapy-implementation-and-its-effects-a-five-year-plan-for-arkham-asylum/), made by Julie Jaudes.


	4. The Magic Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harleen sighed, her frustration melting away into exhaustion. “Everyone needs people, Pamela.”

Pamela stared down in astonishment through the lens of her microscope. The slide being magnified contained a sample of a compound she’d created entirely on accident, a side effect of her experimentation with the rapid growth of poisonous spores.

“Woodrue!” she called, gesturing behind her insistently. “Get my serum notes!”

She grabbed a pipet from the other side of the desk, drawing some of the liquid out of the vial and letting three droplets fall onto the spore sample. “ _Woodrue_!” she shouted. “Quickly, you idiot! The compound is seperating!”

Jason scrambled to her side, setting the tray of beakers he’d been cleaning down on the desk next to her. “I-I’m sorry, I can’t!” he stammered, wincing at the impatient glare she leveled in his direction. “I don’t know your combination!” 

Pamela growled with annoyance as she placed the sample back under the microscope. She hated giving Woodrue any more information about her own research than was completely necessary for their collaboration, but if she could find a way to stabilize the compound in her old formulas, it would be worth having to change her combination. “Nine. Seventeen. Seventy-nine.”

Immediately she was shoved, face first, into the laboratory equipment. Pamela screamed as the glass shattered against her skin. Chemicals poured down her face, burning her eyes. She kicked backwards, furious, but wasn’t able to make contact with her attacker. Instead she felt herself being dragged to her feet and thrown against the wall.

“ _Finally_ ,” Jason said, letting her drop. She cried out as she hit the ground, and he took the opportunity to kneel down next to her. “God. Do you have any idea how _insufferable_ it’s been working with you? You have got to be the most arrogant bitch I’ve ever met.”

Pamela screeched, attempting to claw at his face — but her vision was blurred, and he grabbed her wrists easily. “Bastard!” she screamed. “Worthless, idiot—”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” Jason said. He pulled her back up, slamming her through the glass wall of their refrigerated sample storage. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a serious attitude problem?”

Pamela shrieked again as the contents of the vials burned against her skin, dripping into her open wounds. 

“You want to examine the compound so badly?” he asked, dragging her back over to her workstation by her hair. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

He pulled her head back, pouring the contents of the vial down her throat. She whimpered, then choked. Her tongue swelled as her esophagus closed up and everything, _everything_ hurt. 

She fell, then, no longer supported by Jason’s arms, as he dropped her and walked towards the safe. “You know,” he said conversationally, “if you weren’t so psychotically obsessed with your little go-green initiative, we might have been able to work together on this. I mean, I doubt it, but still. You really are a smart one, Pam. If you would just fucking focus on making money for once, we could be _swimming_ in green right now.”

Pamela still couldn’t see clearly, but she heard the sound of the safe beeping and opening behind her. “As it is, though,” Jason continued, “I imagine these will let me provide well enough for myself. I’m thinking of buying an island. You’d be into that, right? Just me, nature, and lots and _lots_ of green. Hey, maybe I’ll name it after you!” he said, his footsteps returning in her direction. “Isley Island. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

He came closer until Pamela could feel him leaning over her. She didn’t move, just laid there on the cold floor. “Or maybe I’ll just forget your whiny ass ever existed.”

Pamela shook, trembling. “Woodrue...” she whimpered.

Jason laughed. “Yeah, Pam?”

She opened her watery eyes, staring up at him through chemically-burned lashes. “Jason, _please_ ,” she gasped out. 

“Oh, now she’s polite!” he exclaimed. “If only you’d learned the magic word... what, seven months ago? You might not be dying an agonizing death right now. But hey, I suddenly find myself with a considerable amount of free time on my hands. How can I help you, Pammy?”

Pamela shifted. “Please...” she said again, weakly lifting a hand towards him. He laughed, pulling her shaking form onto his lap.

In an instant, Pamela lurched forward, grabbing his face with both hands and pressing her mouth against his lips. He gagged, trying to pull away, but her death grip was too strong for him to struggle out of her grasp. Finally, Pamela broke off the kiss.

“Please, Jason,” she said in a clear voice. “Go to Hell.”

“H-How?” Jason gasped, his skin paling as the toxin started to take effect.

“By dying, you imbecile,” she said, tossing him to the side and rising to her feet. He cried out, breath rattling as his lungs started to fail him. 

“Oh, you mean how I’m alive,” Pamela said. “I’m not sure, to be completely honest with you. I mean, I’m not an _idiot_ ,” he hissed down at him, kicking at his dying form. “My work does motivate me to be on at least a dozen anti-toxins at any given time. But reasonably, yes, I imagine I should be choking to death on my own vomit right now.”

She leaned down, pulling her notes from where they were clutched in Jason’s white-knuckled hand. “But don’t worry about it, _sweetheart_ ,” she said, stepping on his neck. He wheezed, and his yellowing eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sure I’ll be able to figure it out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This take on Ivy's transformation is also inspired by her New 52 origin, where before her accident she's already an amoral scientist with extremist tendencies (rather than a shrinking violet who undergoes serious personality changes). The method, however, is inspired by her "death" and rebirth in the 1997 Batman & Robin movie (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVWVKTHRZCI&ab_channel=FlashbackFM)... for some reason. Is it embarassingly campy? Yes. Was it still formative? Apparently so. 
> 
> The combination to her safe is a date: September 17, 1179, the death day of Hildegard of Bingen, one of the first recorded woman natural scientists (and widely considered the founder of the field in Germany). It seemed like the kind of factoid that Ivy would hide her research behind.


	5. Self-Admitted

“You’re clear.”

Harleen glanced over her shoulder as Bolton buzzed her through the decontamination chamber. She adjusted the mask of her hazmat suit, uncomfortable, as she waited for the infirmary door to unlock. When it did, she pushed through, bracing herself for the toxic, cloying smell that filled the room.

The infirmary had been built to serve all of Arkham’s inmates, but for the last week the area had been quarantined to only one. It hadn’t been the most elegant solution to the problem, but in Jeremiah’s defense the situation hadn’t exactly been precedented. 

The asylum was used to late night check-ins, sure. Half the time that Gotham’s most eccentric nocturnal citizen chased down an escaped inmate, he brought them directly to Arkham without bothering to stop at the GCPD. But his drop-offs were subdued. On nights where the guards were lucky, the vanquished supervillain hadn’t even regained consciousness on the ride over. And on the unlucky nights... well. The Bat was there to make sure no one got their head bitten off. 

What the asylum was _not_ used to was escaped inmates showing back up of their own accord. Especially when the inmate in question was a powerful superhuman whose _sui generis_ mutation had started deteriorating so terribly that the guards on rotation hadn’t even been able to comprehend her screaming. Several had perished from the poisonous miasma seeping from the pores of the invader before Batman had arrived to take her down. 

Even he had been disquieted by the state of his fallen foe. Once she was unconscious — a state that for once seemed to be more relief than punishment — the Bat had _ordered_ Jeremiah to take her to the infirmary instead of her usual cell. Even more remarkably, instead of finding some way to undermine Batman’s unofficial and completely illegal authority, Jeremiah had quickly and efficiently obeyed. 

It hadn’t taken very long for Arkham’s physicians to determine that there was something very, _very_ wrong with Pamela Isley. For years they’d taken records and jotted down notes as her abilities had developed from exuding poison to producing mind-controlling pheromones to the outright manipulation of the plant life around her. They’d never been certain whether it was a natural progression of whatever lab accident had originally befell her, or if the changes in her capabilities had been encouraged by further experimentation from Ivy herself. But they’d always considered it just that — an unusual capability. Something Ivy could do, not something she _was_. 

But as Harleen stared at the prone form strapped down to the medical cot before her, she found it difficult to see it as a human woman gifted with extraordinary powers. Ivy didn’t even _look_ human anymore. Her hair, formerly a coppery auburn, had bloomed into a rose red more aposematic than any color Harleen had ever seen on a box at the drugstore. Her eyes, when they flickered open, had lost their natural hazel to a yellow haze that covered everything but the pitch black of her newly polychoric pupils. Most dramatically, what had once been healthy skin had turned a sickly, fleshless green. Were there not slight movements from the infirmary bed, it would have been difficult to believe the recumbent figure was even alive. 

She couldn’t look more different than the last time Harleen had seen her, a proud and stubborn and infuriatingly _human_ being, despite her professed hatred for her species of origin. The creature in the bed looked wrecked, an alien mockery of human life fraying at its unnatural seams. If Harleen hadn’t met her before her transformation, she wasn’t sure she would have believed Pamela Isley had ever been human at all.

None of this had seemed to make her any less attractive, of course. Several of the specialists who’d been sent to Arkham by their sponsor at Wayne Enterprises had needed to be replaced immediately — the weaker willed had demanded that nothing was wrong with Poison Ivy at all, with one even making an entirely ill-planned attempt at “rescuing” his patient from Arkham’s treatment facilities. Less impressionable experts had been shipped in soon afterwards, as well as new safety procedures preventing any sample taken from the patient from being exposed to the air. 

For her part, with her current canned oxygen supply, Harleen thought the loss of Pamela’s more delicate, human features had done a number on her conventional attractiveness. Ivy had always been able to manage Cover Girl pretty when she wanted to, so long as the effort was worth the reward. But the savage inhumanity of her transformed appearance could never replicate the kind of soft, pliable pretty that she had previously pretended to be. It was more honest, Harleen thought — and, at risk of sounding too much like the demented botanist who’d tried to rescue Ivy’s “perfection” from the ravages of a potential cure, it suited her. 

Ivy’s eyes flickered open then, as if the criminal’s legendary ego had woken her at the presence of a flattering thought. 

“Harleen?” she whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Dr. Isley,” Harleen replied, moving closer to her patient.

Ivy smirked weakly at the attempt at professionalism, then frowned. “I’m... at Arkham?” 

“Yes,” Harleen said. “You came here yourself. Do you not remember?”

A look of shock flickered over Ivy’s features, but it was quickly replaced by an expression Harleen found worryingly neutral.

“They’re putting something in me,” she observed. Ivy’s head was strapped to the table, but she was still able to gesture towards the IV stands with her eyes. 

Her curiosity was obvious, but Harleen wouldn’t have been allowed to answer the unspoken question even if she’d been informed of the nature of the fluids being pumped through whatever currently passed for Ivy’s veins. 

“The doctors are trying to stabilize your condition,” Harleen said, which she was almost certain was true. “They believe your mutation is... degenerating.”

Ivy laughed at that; a dry, joyless sound that seemed to catch in her throat. “Do they?” she asked. “I wonder what led them to that conclusion?”

Harleen stared carefully at the bound woman over the rim of her glasses. “I take it you agree with their assessment.”

“Do you think it was the skin?” Ivy mused, glancing down her face at her nose. “ _I_ wasn’t expecting the skin.”

“I’m sure the skin was a contributing factor,” Harleen said. She wished there was a chair for her to sit in near the hospital bed; instead she simply stood nearby, arms crossed behind her back for lack of anywhere else to be. “Did it frighten you? Your physical transformation?”

Ivy stared, impassively, back at Harleen’s inquisitive gaze. “Do I _look_ frightened to you, Doctor?” 

“You look like you’re strapped to a table with unidentified fluids being injected into your bloodstream,” Harleen observed, then cocked her head. “Which you knew was likely to happen when you came here.”

“I don’t recall.”

“And yet you came anyway,” Harleen continued. “Willingly. To a place where there are people. Something you’ve claimed you would never do without the intention of mass murder.”

Ivy blinked. “Did I... did I not kill anyone when I got here?” she asked, sounding disappointed. 

“No,” Harleen said. It was barely a lie. The guards who died upon Ivy’s arrival had seemed more the victims of incidental manslaughter than intentional murder. “Because you arrived with a different intention entirely.”

“And what was that?” Ivy asked, her brow furrowing. It was an odd effect — the skin didn’t move the way Harleen would have expected it to, and it highlighted the strange immobility of what remained of her eyebrows. 

Harleen grinned. “You wanted _help_.”

The glare Ivy leveled at her was near-lethal. 

“You did!” Harleen insisted. “You would never have willingly returned to Arkham if you hadn’t completely given up on being able to fix the problem yourself.”

“ _You_ —” Ivy hissed, then stopped, sighing. “Look. I don’t need other people to fix myself. I have... methods, for healing. But in this specific situation, my normal methods of self-protection were...”

“Making it worse?” Harleen guessed.

“Your words,” Ivy said, closing her eyes. “I’m all for becoming one with nature, honey. But doing it literally is a little more of a... disconcerting nonentity than I would have expected.”

Her yellow eyes re-opened, guardedly curious. “But I’m feeling much more myself now.” 

“I would say so,” Harleen said. “This is our most lucid session so far.”

Ivy stared. “Our... what?”

“Our sessions,” Harleen said. “I’ve come in every day for the last week.”

“No,” Ivy frowned. “That’s not... I would remember that.”

“Well, definitely not all of it,” Harleen said. “The first three days I don’t think you even noticed my presence. Even though I was talking. A lot.”

“You definitely do that,” Ivy agreed, still looking somewhat stunned.

“The fourth day you made lingering eye contact, which seemed promising,” Harleen said. “The fifth day you verbally responded to me, which was even better, even if you were entirely incoherent.”

Ivy didn’t say anything, though the look of concentration on her face indicated that she was digging deep in her memory.

“Yesterday you were _very_ chatty, although you still didn’t make much sense,” Harleen said. “But today, here we are! Having an entire conversation. Like people. Instead of one person, and some kind of twitching fern.” 

That didn’t seem to reassure her. “It was a good idea, Pamela,” Harleen added. “Coming to us for help. It worked. We’re helping you get better.”

“Are you?” Ivy asked, looking frustrated. “Because you just told me I’ve been laying here for a _week_ , and whatever you idiots have been doing to me hasn’t halted my mutation at all. Are you really going to stand there in a fucking _hazmat suit_ and tell me everything’s fine?” 

“They _make_ me wear this,” Harleen protested. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Ivy laughed at that; a short, shocked sound that echoed through the empty infirmary like a gunshot. When Harleen neglected to rescind her statement she laughed again, longer and nearly hysterical.

Harleen sighed. “Ivy—”

Branches crashed through the stone walls of the infirmary, surging through the room and blocking the entrance.

“You think I can’t _hurt_ you?” Ivy asked as the twisting limbs plucked Harleen off her feet, restraining the psychiatrist and yanking her into the air. “You think I’m — what. Sickly? Harmless?” 

The branches snapped the bands tying Ivy to the cot and lifted her up gracefully, pulling her up to a perch several feet above Harleen. 

“You’re the sick one, _Doctor_ ,” Ivy growled. “All you humans are. You’re a disease on this earth.” She laughed again, the sound high and humorless. “Maybe that’s why I’m evolving, hmm? To choke you degenerate, _predatory_ animals off the face of the planet.”

The branches tightened around Harleen’s chest. “Did you and your friends consider that?” Ivy asked, glaring down at Harleen’s restrained form. “Or did you just poke and prod while you imagined that I was helpless?”

She dropped Harleen to the floor before she could reply. “Well, guess what, sweetheart!” Ivy said, watching with amusement as the doctor struggled to her feet. “I’m _never_ helpless. And if you were as smart as you seem to think you are, you’d know how to keep your distance.”

A new growth of tree limbs knocked Harleen back onto her knees and Ivy allowed herself to be lowered to the ground. She walked up to the fallen woman, pushing back her forehead so she was staring Ivy in the eyes. 

“I am pure poison, Harley,” she said, her voice dead and cold. “I’m not your science experiment. I’m not your friend. You can’t cure me, you can’t dilute me, and you sure as hell can’t make me better.” 

“I know that, Pamela,” Harleen said. “Only you can do that.”

She reached up with a hand, and Ivy’s eyes widened with horror when she realized that Harleen had removed the glove of her suit.

“ _NO!”_ Ivy screamed, trying to back away. “Don’t—”

But Harleen had already wrapped her hand around Ivy’s bare wrist. She tried to pull away, but the doctor’s grip was deceptively strong — and remained so. Ivy stared, incredulous, at Harleen’s hand. The skin was just as soft, flushed and healthy as it had been before making contact with the mutated criminal.

“See?” Harleen said, smiling warmly. “I never thought that you _couldn’t_ hurt me, Ivy. But I trust you to choose not to.”

“You’re insane,” Ivy whispered, stunned breathless. 

“Well, maybe a little,” Harleen admitted. She pulled off her hazmat mask with her still-gloved hand, then used the other to raise Ivy’s to her cheek. The woman’s fingers were cold against Harleen’s warm skin, but there was warmth in her touch all the same. “But I’m not wrong, am I?”

Ivy didn’t reply, just stared down at the shorter woman, her yellow eyes gleaming with unidentifiable emotion. Harleen was almost certain that their height difference had been the reverse the last time she’d seen Ivy, but decided to save her curiosity on that topic for a less emotionally intensive moment.

“You might be criminally insane,” Harleen said. “You might be a murderous and occasionally genocidal eco-terrorist. You _definitely_ have some form of Schizoid Personality Disorder. But you’re not poison, Red.”

She let her fingers tighten around Ivy’s, who offered no resistance to the gesture.

“Not unless you choose to be,” Harleen finished.

Ivy’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her eyes traveled across Harleen’s face as she attempted to compose a reply. “I—”

The plant-blockaded doorway exploded behind them. Branches burst forth to shield the two women from the worst of the flying rubble as Arkham guards burst in, clad in hazmat suits and armed with flamethrowers and riot shields.

“ _Stand down_!” Bolton shouted from the rear. 

Ivy sighed, raising her hands above her head. The gesture was only significant in the metaphorical sense, as even laying on the ground with her hands pinned behind her back wouldn’t have made her less of a threat. The trees did rescind back through the outside wall before they could be torched, however, which seemed to improve the confidence of the guards considerably.

“It’s okay,” Harleen said, stepping forward between Ivy and the guards to de-escalate the situation. “The patient had... a panic attack, upon regaining consciousness, but she’s since calmed down. _Yes_ , she’s surrendering. Obviously. _No_ , I am not— Lyle, you stupid bitch, do I _sound_ pheromoned to you?”

She turned her head to the side so the woman behind her could see her roll her eyes. 

Ivy smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do envision Poison Ivy as a monster girl, and yes, it is tantamount to my enjoyment of the character. Fully mutated Ivy should look human-adjacent at MOST and that is a hill I am willing to die on.


	6. Disciplinary Overlap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not poison, Red," Harleen said. "Not unless you choose to be."

“Please remain seated,” the guard said. “No physical contact allowed.”

Pamela glanced up at the man, surprised. It hadn’t been long since her rather fortunate lab accident at the hands of Jason Woodrue had given her an exciting new perspective on her research into pheromone spores, but she had already gotten used to the passive submission of her test subjects. 

“Oh, don’t worry about little old me,” she said, reaching into her coat pocket for a flask of her latest formula. She thumbed off the cap, letting a little of the mixture fall into her palm before resealing the glass. Smiling warmly, she raised her hand to her mouth to blow a kiss — and a little chemical compliance — in the direction of the guard. 

“I’m sure I won’t cause you any trouble,” she said, watching him stumble slightly and shake his head as the spores took effect. 

“You won’t cause me any trouble,” he repeated drowsily, his eyes fixed on her lips. “Has... has anyone told you that you’re very pretty?”

“Yes,” Pamela said, turning away to face the other end of the table. 

Another guard emerged from the door leading into the cell block, escorting with him an older man in an orange prison jumpsuit. It went very unflatteringly with the man’s complexion, which gave Pamela some small sense of satisfaction. 

Pamela’s heart raced as the man was led over to where she sat. The guard leading him gave a short nod to his disoriented colleague after sitting the prisoner down, which Pamela’s new friend returned after an almost imperceptible pause.

The second guard left, leaving her and the man — for all intents and purposes — alone.

She waited for him to say something; it seemed only right, since she had gone through all the bother of coming here to see him. But if he sensed his implicit obligation to speak first, he didn’t act on it. He just stared at her, watching her end of the table over the rims of his impeccably clean glasses.

He looked different than the last time she’d seen him, though not enough for Pamela’s taste. His chestnut hair had started to fade to grey, but remained irritatingly full with no signs of starting to thin or recede. The wrinkles around his mouth and eyes were new, but lacked the haggard sagging she’d been hoping for. 

He could still be charming when he wanted to be, Pamela was sure. Not that he would have any luck with her; a fact he seemed aware of, based on his continued silence. 

But still. She would have liked him to _try_.

“I’ve been doing wonderful, thank you for asking,” Pamela said, leaning backwards in her chair. “Things have really been looking up lately. I’m absolutely _rolling_ in green.”

His eyes flickered from her face downwards, taking in her expensive clothes. 

“Nice, no?” she asked, checking her nails impassively. “I never really understood your obsession with the material as a child, I have to say. But now that people are practically throwing their wealth at me? I admit I’ve gotten accustomed to a certain quality of life.”

He folded his arms over his chest. 

“I’ve found a new line of work, I suppose you could say,” Pamela continued. “Not too different from my previous career, though arguably with more opportunities for practical field research.”

He gave no outward indication of having heard her, but did push his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, which Pamela decided to take as a declaration of curiosity. 

“Ah, that’s right,” Pamela said, tapping her fingers against the table. “You don’t even know what my previous career _was_ , do you? So silly of me, to talk to you like we aren’t practically strangers.”

He didn’t rise to the bait; just continued watching her in silence.

“I’m a botanist, actually,” she said. “That might not surprise you. I’ve never been particularly subtle about my enthusiasm for plants.”

Pamela made a show of reaching into her other coat pocket. The prisoner glanced towards the guard, then paled slightly at the drugged man’s non reaction. He flinched backward when his visitor’s hand emerged, holding... a flower.

“Atropa Belladonna,” Pamela said, smiling in amusement over having finally gotten a reaction. “A favorite of yours, if I remember correctly.”

She raised the hand holding the flower up in the direction of the guard. The prisoner watched, stunned, as the uniformed man blushed and reached out to accept her gift. The guard sniffed the Belladonna with an expression of absolute contentment, then tucked it carefully in the pocket of his shirt.

“You know, my specialization was in toxicology too,” Pamela continued. “My job wasn’t much like yours in the hospital, though. Less _diagnosis_ , more _genesis_. In theory, anyway. In practice it was mostly cleaning test tubes and watching cellular mitosis.” 

He said nothing, apparently unmoved by their disciplinary connection.

“Now, though,” Pamela said. “I think we might actually have some overlap. Not with your boring medical job, of course. But there are some similarities to your... extracurricular pastimes. Not that my ambitions are as small and self-obsessed as yours. And not that I’m planning on letting _mine_ lead me to a place like this.”

The prisoner turned back to the guard, clearly expecting some sort of reaction to what Pamela was saying. But the love struck fool just stared at her like she’d hung the moon in the sky. 

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” Pamela asked, her smirk growing into a triumphant grin. “Not being in control. Watching someone else have all the power. Watching _me_ have the power.”

Silence.

“ _Well_?” Pamela hissed. She leaned forward, palms flat on the table as she pushed herself into the silent man’s space. “ _Say_ something!” 

He stared at her, considering. Then, finally, he spoke.

“And what would you like me to say, Pam?” he asked. “Now that you’re in control.” 

She glared at him.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he said. He leaned forward in his chair, until their faces were inches apart. “Having the power, for once. Exerting your will over others.”

“Don’t pretend you understand me,” Pamela snarled. “You bullied a child and a coward. You have no idea what I’m capable of.” 

“Maybe I don’t,” he said, glancing pointedly at the guard. “But I know where it’ll take you. You _will_ end up in a place like this, Pam. Or worse. You might see it differently, but I’ve always wanted what’s best for you.”

“ _Liar_.”

“You aren’t in control, sweetheart,” he said. “Not really. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

Pamela stared at him for a moment. Then she leaned forward to kiss him.

Her mouth only touched the left edge of his lips; most of the kiss was to his cheek, stubbled and warm with the flush of panic that had spread through his face when she moved forward. She backed away, regarding him carefully as she sat back down. 

She wondered if he knew what she had just done. There was no reason for him to immediately understand the significance of her action. The toxin from her lips, which would dissipate long before the coroner examined his body, wouldn’t cause any noticeable symptoms until later that night. But there was a look in his eyes that made her think he might; a small, helpless fear that Pamela knew all too well. That he must have known too, long before she had been born.

“I liked you better when you didn’t say anything,” she said, rising to her feet. She turned to look at the guard, who perked up at the sudden influx of her attention. “You can take him away, now. I’m done here.”

The man nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to do her bidding, grabbing the prisoner by the shoulder and nearly dragging him out of his chair. His roughness as he pushed the man towards the door where he’d entered gave Pamela a small piece of pleasure, but not enough that she could convince herself of the truth of her words. 

The prisoner might be finished, but Pamela wasn’t done with this. And as she met her father’s eyes for what she knew would be the last time, she wondered if she ever would be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy killing her father while he's in prison is an idea lifted directly from Detective Comics Feat. Poison Ivy #23.1. It's a origin for her told in a series of flashbacks that I mostly really dislike, save for that scene. They don't talk at all in the comic - he doesn't say anything to her and she kisses him immediately, causing the prison guards to drag them away from each other - but there was still a sense of her needing closure and him denying it to her that I found really interesting.


	7. Candy Exchange

“Oh, Dr. Quinzel...”

Harleen impatiently glanced up from her paperwork. “Typically people knock _before_ they come in, Dr. Meridian.”

Chase smiled, closing the door behind her. “Typically, the staff here keeps their doors locked when they’re not expecting company.”

“Isn’t that a fire hazard?” Harleen asked, watching as Dr. Meridian sat down, uninvited, in the chair across from her desk. 

“Maybe,” Chase agreed easily. “But most of your coworkers have other hazards on their minds.” She picked up the deck of playing cards Harleen used to play solitaire when she needed a distraction. “Speaking of...”

Harleen sighed, pulling a folder over the papers she’d been working on. “How can I help you, Doctor?”

“Oh, it’s not how _you_ can help _me,”_ Chase said, bright eyes gleaming. Harleen watched as her manicured nails teased open the pack of cards. “I’m here for the sake of our patients.”

“I told you,” Harleen protested. “I already gave you everything I have for your Batman profile. Believe it or not, he doesn’t come up in my sessions that much.”

“Not,” Chase replied. “But no, that’s not why I’m here. I was talking to Dr. Leland the other day, and we were thinking that the current distribution of patients to doctors in individual sessions may not be to everyone’s favor.” 

“Really?” Harleen asked, her voice distinctly lacking any curiosity for clarification. “A little uncharacteristically vague, for a thought from Joan.”

“Her particular observation was that she and I both have solo slots with Pamela Isley,” Chase said, flicking through the deck impassively. “Which you do not.” 

“I have a busy schedule,” Harleen said, after a pause. “Jeremiah doesn’t want to overburden the staff.”

“He’s very thoughtful that way,” Chase said. She pulled a singular card out of the deck, turning it slowly from its art deco back to the illustrated queen on the other side. “These are very pretty. Recent acquisition?”

“No,” Harleen lied. “Have you been struggling in your sessions with Dr. Isley? I only ever formally worked with her under Dr. Anderson’s group therapy framework, but I did take notes. I could offer some pointers if you’re having difficulty connecting.”

Chase smiled like she hadn’t noticed the insult. “Very generous, thank you. Actually, your success at connecting with Pamela _is_ why I’m here. She was asking after you in our Tuesday session, you know.”

Harleen rubbed her thumb against the button of her jacket cuff. “Was she?”

“Yes,” Chase said, leaning forward slightly. “I think she thought she was being subtle.” She laughed, a little too lightly for Harleen’s taste. “They always think they’re being subtle.” 

“What did you tell her?” Harleen asked, throat slightly dry. 

“Nothing, of course,” Chase said, having the gall to look offended. “It would be terribly unprofessional to give a patient information about one of my coworkers.”

“But not to mention to a coworker something that a patient said in a private session,” Harleen observed. “Two coworkers, assuming this was the impetus for your conversation with Joan.”

“Some of us value the insights of our colleagues,” Chase said, just as judgmentally. “Dr. Leland and I in particular. She had excised similar sentiments from Pamela in her sessions, and thought it might be a sign that our purposes would be better served if you had her as an individual patient.”

Harleen stared. _“Joan_ wants _me_ to meet individually with Poison Ivy?” She laughed, incredulous. “After the incident in the infirmary, she doesn’t even like me to get too close to the trees in the parking lot.”

“Yes, she’s been begging the Board to have them all cut down,” Chase said with a grin. “But no, Dr. Leland actually had the marvelous idea for the two of us to trade patients.”

Harleen didn’t say anything.

“Do you play Klondike with the Jokers in?” Chase asked, casually pulling the pair of clown-faced cards out between two long fingers. “They’re shuffled in with the rest of the deck.”

“Playing with wildcards requires more strategy,” Harleen said stiffly. “You can’t just switch patients, _Doctor._ It’s not like trading candy at Halloween. There’s policy.”

“‘Policy’ just means Jeremiah,” Chase said, placing the Joker cards on the table. “And Jeremiah means it is _absolutely_ like trading candy at Halloween. He’s happy as long as someone gives him a full size chocolate bar. Or, to dispense with the metaphor, promises to give him their professional approval the next time he wants to stick an inmate in a glass cage with a bunch of wild animals.”

“Something I would never be willing to do,” Harleen said, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Yes, well,” Chase said, sounding uncharacteristically abashed. “You’ve never had to sit alone in a room with Jonathan Crane for fifty minutes.”

“You’re right, I haven’t,” Harleen said. “But it’s good to know that fifty minutes of a patient deliberately antagonizing you is all it takes to get you to condone torture. That definitely persuades me to give you unrestricted access to any of the patients whose mental and physical health I am responsible for.”

Chase stiffened, frowning. “I would never have signed off on Jeremiah’s plan if he hadn’t taken adequate preparations to prevent bodily harm,” she said. 

For a moment she looked like she was going to lash back as good as she’d gotten, but after taking a deep breath, her features softened considerably.

“And I would _never_ sign off on a similarly drastic treatment on a patient you’d referred to me without consulting you first,” she added. When Harleen didn’t respond, she sighed. “Dr. Quinzel, please. I’ve seen the footage from August. It’s not often that a psychiatrist can make that kind of meaningful connection with a patient who ticks off that many of Akhtar’s boxes.”

Harleen let her arms drop slightly from their guarding position. “You... agree with my diagnosis?”

Chase shrugged. “I’m generally hesitant to label the groups of symptoms the inmates here exhibit,” she confessed. “Given that their circumstances are often far beyond anything you could find in the DSM-5. But it’s an interesting perspective. Perhaps treating her through that lens would generate more improvement than the tactics of your currently assigned colleagues.”

Harleen scoffed. “What would really generate improvement is if she consented to joining a socialization group,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “But... difficulty in establishing empathetic relations with a psychiatrist _is_ one of the major barriers in treating SPD.” 

“One you’ve already overcome,” Chase agreed. She stared intently at Harleen. “Well?”

The blonde doctor took a deep breath, then held out a hand for the deck of cards. Chase handed the mover, not taking her eyes off of Harleen’s face.

“Fine,” Harleen said. “You can have Edward Nygma.”

“Nashton?” Chase said, wrinkling her nose. She watched with disappointment as Harleen took the Joker cards off of the table. 

“You know, he’s also been working on a profile of Batman,” Harleen mentioned, barely bothering with the veneer of casualness. “I haven’t been able to get him to talk about it much in our sessions. But maybe with a doctor who shared his interests...”

“Aren’t you subtle,” Chase said, but her eyes had lit up. “One green obsessed ginger for another, is that what you’re suggesting?”

Harleen frowned. “I... can’t say I’ve ever thought about them that way,” she said, “but yes.” 

Chase made a considering noise. “I suppose he’s spent more years pondering Batman’s identity than I have,” she mused. “And they do say he’s quite intelligent, don’t they?”

“If by ‘they’ you mean ‘him,’ then yes,” Harleen said. “They say that all the time. Does that mean we have a deal?”

“Well, Dr. Leland will be terribly disappointed,” Chase said, smiling slyly. “But yes, I think we do.” 

She stood up, pushing her chair back into place. “Are you free on Sunday? I’ll arrange brunch with Jeremiah. We can have everything arranged by the next calendar week.”

Harleen frowned. “Don’t you have lunch with Joan on Sundays?”

Chase’s smile broke into a grin. “That’s why I said ‘brunch.’ I plan on gossiping with Dr. Leland immediately afterwards.” She paused on her way to the door. “You could come too, you know. I know she’s invited you before.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harleen said, pulling the folder off of her unfinished paperwork. 

“Yes, that’s what she told me you said,” Chase sighed. “I’ll write you with the details, once I work them out with Jeremiah. See you Sunday, Dr. Quinzel.”

The door closed behind her. Harleen attempted to refocus on the papers in front of her, but her mind kept straying to the conversation before. Eventually, she gave up, pulling out her notes on one Pamela Lilian Isley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly a lot of this was an extended reference to Batman Forever, but I also felt like Harley deserved to get at least one chapter in which Ivy doesn't appear, given that half of this entire fic is Ivy chapters in which Harley doesn't appear. The "sticking Scarecrow in a glass cage and filling it with birds" thing is a reference to Jeremiah Arkham's first appearance in Shadow of the Bat #1. Arkham's portrayal in that comic as a kind of terrible medical facility where patients are subject to the bizarre fixations of their doctors is also definitely the interpretation I'm running with in this fic. Harley definitely disapproves of the atmosphere, but of course she's not exactly a stranger to unconventional therapy.


	8. Vulvic Undertones

Pamela had been kissing a lot of security guards lately. Primarily those working at premier facilities like STAR labs, places with access to the kind of unique chemical blends that Pamela could only have dreamed of when she was partnered with Woodrue. Currently, she was pressing her mouth against the thin, chapped lips of a night watchman at the Gotham Museum of Art. 

She wouldn’t bother, normally. The most important thing was her research; the mind-altering toxin she’d been developing had been progressing deliciously, which cyclically allowed her to get more and more ambitious in acquiring supplies for its improvement. The process was all-consuming, almost to the point of exhaustion. Woodrue had been a pathetic placeholder of a man, but his miserable company had at least provided a distraction when he inevitably frustrated her. 

Now she had no such distractions. She would have expected that to be a good thing, but instead she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. 

Lately she’d been trying to remedy that by taking “culture breaks.” She’d chosen Gotham for her experiments because it was a relative cornucopia of the kind of materials her experiments required, but over the course of her stay she’d found that the city also had no shortage of opportunities for entertainment. Sure, a lot of it was the kind of sleazy pornographic schlock that would have made her mother faint in the street. But a significant amount had genuine artistic or intellectual merit, bastions of culture made cheap to access by excessive donations from wealthy patrons, desperate to lure the masses into staying in a city that would inevitably cause them harm.

It was a corporately designed siren call that Pamela found fascinating, given her current profession. Not that she was actually bothering to pay even the lowest of admittance prices. Right now she wasn’t even in the museum during business hours. She’d heard about a fundraiser being held at the GMA in the evening, which seemed like a more convenient path to dosing a night watchman then tracking one down off-duty. Besides, it gave her an opportunity to wear one of the gowns she’d acquired on a previous culture break. 

“You’re so beautiful,” the guard whispered, pressing a hand to the embroidered green chiffon at her waist.

“Yes,” Pamela said, pushing his hand away. “You understand what I need you to do?”

“Anything for you,” he said, moaning slightly at her touch.

“Ew,” Pamela said, pushing him even further from her. She was satisfied, however. His response hadn’t been incredibly indicative, but he was clearly under her control now, and the effect would last more than long enough for him to do what she needed him to. Especially with the assistance of the rest of his drugged colleagues. 

She left her drooling paramour standing in the Impressionist collection, seeking one more look at the prize she would be collecting before the week’s end. She’d been excited to hear that the GMA was going to host a traveling O’Keefe exhibition, since the artist had always been one of her favorites. Pamela was sure she’d appreciate the art more than whatever idiot collector had been foolish enough to allow his possessions to be shared with the Gotham masses. Georgia’s attention to detail in depicting the natural beauty of the only flowering genus in the _Cannaceae_ family deserved a more cultivated audience. 

Unfortunately, the path to the _Red Canna_ exhibition forced her to pass through that ridiculous fundraiser, which wasn’t showing any sign of dying down. Pamela wasn’t even sure what it was for. Probably orphans, or something. This city certainly had enough of them. 

“A little sensationalist, isn’t it?” Pamela heard a voice to her left remark as she walked past. “I’d expect to see this kind of thing hanging in the Peregrinator’s Club, not a museum.” 

Well, Pamela couldn’t _not_ glance over at that. She turned to see a series of paintings with two men standing in front of it; well, a man and a boy, to be more accurate. The man looked vaguely familiar, though that might have just been the disdainful expression he was wearing, which was similar enough to what Pamela usually saw in the mirror. 

“Isn’t sensationalism kind of the point of pop art?” the younger man asked. 

“No,” the older man said, narrowing his eyes. “The point is to challenge the traditions of fine art by elevating mass culture imagery. What am I paying that school of yours for, again?”

The boy shrugged. “Not to teach me random facts about pop culture?”

“Well, that’s inane,” the man replied, turning back to the paintings. “Knowing random facts about pop culture can be as life-saving as knowing how to perform CPR.”

So, this rich weirdo was clearly deranged. Pamela moved closer to get a better look at the paintings that had inspired their conversation. The series included three singular portraits and one combined study. They depicted three women in revealing skin tight costumes; a raven haired beauty wearing opera length gloves and a shimmering purple cape, a brunette clad in weblike fishnet stockings, and a blonde in a tiger print whose face was covered by a winged mask. The larger painting beneath their individual portraits was a scene of the three together, standing around a map of Gotham divided into three portions. Their poses were decidedly more seductive than Pamela would have expected from what was apparently supposed to be a planning session. 

“They have got to be three of the most beautiful women in the world,” the younger man mused. 

“And the most deadly,” the older man said. “Stop drooling.”

“Hypocrite,” the boy shot back, though his voice was light with barely restrained humor. “I can dream until I’m old enough to catch them, can’t I?”

Apparently the disturbed apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Pamela glanced over the two males surreptitiously. The elder was handsome enough, a dark haired man dressed in a classic jet black tuxedo that looked like it might have been bought an hour ago. The younger was dressed considerably less traditionally, wearing a bright yellow-gold suit with a burning red belt and bow tie. The effect should have been ridiculous, but annoyingly his easy smile and boyish confidence somehow allowed it to work.

“You’re talking like they’re real people,” Pamela observed.

The pair turned to look at her. “They are,” said the man. “Have you lived in Gotham long, Miss...?”

“Doctor,” she said. “Donna. And no, I’m a fairly recent arrival.”

The man brightened considerably. “Dr. Donna,” he corrected, extending a hand. “Welcome to the city. We’re always happy to see transplants.” 

“Yes,” Pamela replied, shaking his hand lightly. “I imagine you permanent residents are quite desperate for fresh breeding stock, given Gotham’s remarkable early death rates.”

The man’s smile froze slightly, but didn’t drop. “Something along those lines,” he allowed, giving her hand one final shake before returning his to his pocket.

“They’re supervillains,” the younger man said, obviously eager to get back to a topic he actually found interesting. “You’re looking at public enemies one, two, and three.”

Pamela looked back up at the paintings with renewed interest. “They’re women?”

“Yup,” the boy said. “Huge win for feminism.”

“Dick,” the man called him, which seemed a little extreme. “But yes, these women are currently the GCPD’s most wanted. Well,” he said, gesturing up to the paintings. “Not _these_ women, exactly. Unfortunately the public takes their gender as an excuse to eroticize them into sensual thrillseekers, instead of recognizing them as the monsters they are.”

The boy coughed something that sounded a lot like “hypocrite” into his arm, which his elder ignored. 

“Hmm,” Pamela said, staring up at the soft curves and piercing eyes of the women above her. “Men are fools.”

“I’m generally inclined to agree with you,” the man said, pointing at the info card next to the display. “But this particular depiction is from one of yours.”

Pamela looked. The artist was a Rachel Dodson. 

“Huh,” she said, examining the paintings with renewed interest. 

“Are you saying they don’t actually look like this in real life?” the younger man asked, sounding disappointed.

“I’m saying that it doesn’t matter what they look like,” the older man replied. “Right now, they’re the most dangerous people in Gotham.”

Pamela scoffed.

Both men turned to look at her expectantly. “You disagree?” the younger asked.

“Well, come on,” she said, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “How dangerous can they be, if everyone knows about them?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” the man said.

“If a crime is _perfect,_ then it doesn’t get any publicity, does it?” Pamela said. “Whoever Gotham’s real public enemy number one is, she — or he — isn’t getting attention from the authorities at all.”

“Interesting theory,” the man said, looking thoughtful. 

“But total bunk,” the boy added. “Any real villain would try to test themselves against Batman and Robin.”

Them, Pamela _had_ heard of. Though she’d seen their existence credited to everything from urban legend to GCPD propaganda. 

“And has any ‘real’ villain ever successfully proven themselves against this Batman?” she asked.

“And Robin,” the boy said. 

“No,” the man said. “Batman’s defeated every criminal who’s challenged him.”

“Hmm,” Pamela said. “Well, I don’t see how they were ‘real’ villains, then, if they couldn’t beat a man in a bat costume.”

“And Robin!” the boy said, more insistently this time.

“I assure you, they were,” the older man said, then paused. “Well. Most of them, anyway.”

“Hmm,” Pamela repeated. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“I hope you that’s all you ever have to do,” he said seriously. “Far better to doubt the danger of Gotham’s high profile criminals than witness it in person.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Pamela said dryly. “Well, I have to use the bathroom.”

The man blinked. “Okay?”

She turned around and walked back the way she came. 

“Goodbye!” the boy called after her.

She didn’t bother responding. She had to find one of her night watchmen, to add four new items to her shopping list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is directly inspired by Poison Ivy's first ever appearance in comics, Batman #181. In it, completely inexplicably, public enemies number 1-3 are all lady supervillains who had never appeared in a comic before; Dragonfly, Silken Spider, and Tiger Moth. Not only are they apparently ruling the criminal underworld, but they're also pop culture sensations to the point that Bruce, Dick and Ivy are all attending an exhibit at an art museum that features paintings of them.
> 
> The chapter title is a reference to how male critics always argued that Georgia O'Keefe's paintings of flowers were supposed to represent female genitalia, even when she directly told them otherwise. Pamela is definitely just taking them as the hyper-detailed flower studies they were intended to be.
> 
> Bruce isn't not introducing himself and Dick to be rude, it just genuinely didn't occur to him that someone might not know who he is. Which IS rude. Just unintentionally rude.


	9. Birds of a Feather

“I know that you know there’s a formal process for requesting a change in doctors,” Harleen said eventually, deciding that the two had stared at each other in silence for long enough.

Ivy grinned. “And I know that you know that  _ I _ know that the formal process is long, humiliating, and has a completely variable chance of success.” She tilted her head, letting a long strand of blood red hair fall in front of her yellowed eyes. “Meanwhile, manipulating the staff into doing it under the table is fast, fun, and as likely to work out in my favor as it is to boost their already bloated egos.”

Harleen sat forward. “And I know that you know that I know that  _ you  _ know—”

“Stop,” Ivy ordered. “Do not turn this into a bit.”

“Fine,” Harleen sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“I mean, really,” Ivy said disdainfully. “How much time  _ are  _ you spending with the clown?”

Harleen bristled. “Is that why you wanted sessions with me?” she asked. “To fill you in on your fellow inmates, now that you don’t have to do group therapy anymore?”

“Of course not,” Ivy scoffed, annoyed. “I couldn’t care less about those animals.”

“They’re not animals,” Harleen said. “They’re people. People you might find you have a lot in common with, if you were ever willing to look.”

Ivy scowled. “I have more in common with algae than I do with those worthless fleshbags,” she said. “And  _ where _ is all this hostility coming from? What happened to ‘I trust you, Pamela,’ and ‘you’re not poison, Pamela.’”

“Nothing happened,” Harleen said. “I still believe those things. But I said them because I want our relationship to be  _ based  _ on trust. Playing mind games with my colleagues, tricking them into thinking making me your doctor is their idea — that’s not trust. Trust would be having faith in me to advocate for you.”

Ivy’s expression softened somewhat. “I do... trust your intentions,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “But you have too much faith in the system. Mind games and underhandedness are the only way anything gets done around here.”

“They are,” Harleen agreed. “Which is why 90% of what gets done around here is the staff abusing patients or the patients blackmailing staff.” 

Ivy shrugged. “Which is only a problem for weak staff,” she said, then smirked. “Or weak patients. Thankfully, my skin is as thick as it is poisonous.”

“Hmm,” Harleen hummed, tapping her pencil against her notepad. “Belief that your power, cruelty, and endurance makes you immune to abuse would be a great example of something you have in common with your fellow inmates.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “You can’t possibly be comparing my actual existence to whatever Edward mutters to himself when the guards take his blankets,” she said. “I’m hardly partial to the term, but they call me a metahuman for a  _ reason, _ sweetheart.”

“Yes, people are correct in fearing lethal reprisal if they wrong you,” Harleen said. “But the same could be said of many of your peers. You aren’t the only one who cultivates a terrifying persona in order to pre-emptively defend oneself from physical and emotional harm.”

Ivy stared at her with unmitigated disgust. “There’s no one you could be comparing me to that I wouldn’t find unbearably insulting.”

“Well, I won’t name names, then,” Harleen said. “I’m not here to talk about them, anyway.”

Ivy shifted, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Well. We could talk about them a little bit. How’s Jervis doing? Still stalking secretaries?” 

Harleen pressed the tip of her pencil deep into the paper, containing her frustration to the gesture. “Pamela,” she said. “Surely there’s something specific you wanted to talk about, to bother arranging for us to meet like this.”

“Maybe I just like having a variety of pretty faces sitting in the doctor’s chair,” Ivy suggested. “There’s only so long you can watch the same pair of lips moralize to you before getting bored.”

Harleen didn’t acknowledge the obvious insult. “And is there anything in particular you’d like to watch my lips moralize about?”

“Well,” Ivy said. “You don’t actually seem to moralize to your patients as much as you moralize to your colleagues.”

“When you say it like that, you make me sound bad at my job,” Harleen said. 

“Maybe you are,” Ivy said. “You’ve been working here for a year now. Any success stories yet?”

“At Arkham?” Harleen asked, raising an eyebrow. “‘Success stories’ here means that the next time your patient escapes, casualties are in the low tens.”

“And?”

“By that graciously low bar, yes, I have about three success stories,” Harleen said. “Any chance you’d be willing to join them?”

“How should I know?” Harleen said. “You haven’t given me any therapy yet.”

“You haven’t given me anything to therapize yet,” Harleen pointed out. “Or is this the point of the session where I should start asking vague, leading questions about your relationship with your father?”

Ivy hesitated before speaking. “You could try.”

Harleen snorted. “I think I know better than that.”

Ivy shrugged. “It might be entertaining if you pretended you didn’t.”

There was a moment of silence as Harleen considered this.

“Okay,” she said. “What characteristics would you expect from an ideal father?”

“An ideal father?” Ivy echoed. She blinked, evidently surprised by the question. “I don’t know. Not being an abusive bastard?”

“Well, one would certainly hope,” Harleen said. “But that would be the absence of a characteristic, not a characteristic in of itself.”

“Fair enough,” Ivy said, tilting her head consideringly. More hair fell in her face, and she huffed as she shook it away. “I suppose... a father who indulges his child’s interests?”

“Interesting,” Harleen said. She jotted down Ivy’s response in shorthand, though she knew the session was being recorded. She just liked looking at handwritten notes when reflecting on her conversations. “Your father’s court records would indicate that he shared your passion for toxicology.”

“Not in any way that benefited me,” Ivy said. “And besides, it wasn’t toxins I was passionate about back then. Just plants”

“No?” Harleen asked without glancing up.

“Well,” Ivy amended. “I suppose I always had a bit of a morbid fascination with the prettier poisons. Oleander. Foxglove. Nightshade. Did you know I was almost named Belladonna?”

“I did not.”

“He got halfway through spelling it out to the nurse when she remarked that I would be destined to become a pop star,” Ivy said. “He was so shocked and offended that he stopped and gave her the name of his grandmother instead.”

“Your mother didn’t have a say in the process?” Harleen asked, jotting down and underlining the words ‘great-grandmother.’

Ivy laughed, somewhat cruelly. “She was in the room,” she said. “Which is more than she usually managed. She did suggest ‘Lillian’ as a middle name. Though he only approved it because it reminded him of the lily of the valley.” 

Pausing, Harleen glanced up from her notes. “I’m going out on a limb and assuming that lilies of the valley are poisonous?”

“Very,” Ivy smiled. “Roughly 38 different cardiac glycosides occur in  _ convallaria majalis _ . Each highly toxic to humans.”

“Charming,” Harleen said. “Did it make you feel special, that your father wanted to associate you with something he felt passionate about?”

Ivy looked up, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe I’d be more touched if he had gone through with naming me Belladonna. At least then I wouldn’t have had to get creative when I started my career in supervillainy.” 

“‘Poison Ivy’ isn’t exactly the most fear-inducing moniker,” Harleen noted.

“It sounded like my given name,” Ivy shrugged. “I thought it was cute.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Harleen said, then cleared her throat. “If you had children—”

The glare from the other side of the table stopped her in her tracks. “I do have children,” Ivy said heatedly.

“Human children,” Harleen clarified, and Ivy scoffed disparagingly. “Is there anything your father did with you that you would want to incorporate into your parenting?”

“You can see the green skin, can’t you?” Ivy asked impatiently. “It’s not for show, sweetness. I’m not having human children. At this point, the fruit of my womb would probably be literal fruit.”

Harleen tapped her pencil against her notepad. “Not being able to physically give birth to children doesn’t mean you can’t  _ have  _ children,” she argued. “There’s always adoption.”

“Not for anyone with  _ my _ criminal record,” Ivy said. “They’d sooner give a child to one of Oswald’s vultures. You could give me a bill of health so clean I could use it to pack a wound and the state still wouldn’t let me come within a hundred miles of any adoption papers.” She paused. “Unless by ‘adopt’ you meant ‘kidnap.’”

“I did not,” Harleen said quickly. “I’m sorry, I guess that was a bad question.”

“They’ve all been bad,” Ivy said, looking cross. “Aren’t you supposed to be asking me if I harbored a secret attraction to my father as an adolescent or something?”

Harleen binked, then dutifully picked up her pencil. “Alright,” she said, sounding bored. “Did you harbor a secret attraction to your father as an adolescent?”

“Of fucking course not.”

“Great,” Harleen said, standing up. “Well, therapy done for today, I suppose.” 

“Oh, come on,” Ivy protested, frowning. “I didn’t realize you were going to be so sensitive about it.”

“No, I’m serious,” Harleen said. “Our time is up. I have to clock out or security will assume I’m breaking you out somehow.”

“What?” Ivy said, startled. “We just started.”

“That’s kind of the idea,” Harleen said. “It was our first session.”

“No, I mean we  _ just started,”  _ Ivy repeated. “How could our time be up?”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have spent so much of it staring at me in complete silence,” Harleen suggested. “That took a lot of time off the clock.”

“It’s not like I was going to talk first,” Ivy said, her pale green lips curled with displeasure.

“But you did  _ want  _ to talk?” Harley asked, pausing on her way to the door.

Ivy didn’t say anything. 

“Okay,” Harleen said. “Well, I did want to talk. So thank you for obliging me.”

She turned around, pressing a button on the wall signifying that she was ready to be let out. There was a buzzing sound as the lock was unbolted, permitting her exit.

“You’re welcome!” Ivy called out at Harleen’s back, breaking the silence right as the therapist crossed back over the threshold. 

Harleen smiled as the door closed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nurse actually said "porn star," but Ivy's father censored this whenever he told the story while his daughter was in the room. Ivy has spent her entire life under the impression that her father had some kind of weird beef with pop singers.


End file.
